


Week 7: Purple / Luxury

by DramioneLDWS



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 11:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30105432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DramioneLDWS/pseuds/DramioneLDWS
Summary: Each chapter is an individual drabble written by a single participant.IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: Due to the potential for heavy themes/triggering content, please pay attention to every individual drabble's trigger warnings. If you feel uncomfortable reading an entry, please notify an admin. If you are not comfortable notifying an admin, you are not obligated to read triggering content.Please mind the tags/triggers at the top of each entry.
Relationships: Neville Longbottom/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 51
Kudos: 35
Collections: Last Drabble Writer Standing - Round 3: Rare Pairs





	1. Another Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Another Way  
> Rating: T  
> Word Count: 750  
> Warnings: Mentions of domestic abuse, implied homemade contraception
> 
> AUTHOR: [Misdemeanor1331](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misdemeanor1331/pseuds/Misdemeanor1331)

Lady Pansy Flint brought winter into Neville Longbottom’s summertime apothecary, her quiet as severe and blanketing as a midnight blizzard. 

She strolled the aisles, nonchalant until she reached a particular section of desiccated plant specimens. Her focus sharpened, and though Neville recognized her desire for silence, instinct overrode sense. 

“If you need any help, ma’am…” 

Her chin lifted; Neville’s cheeks burned. Pansy was a woman of society. In no reality could he—a mere tradesman, though he came from a good family—ever provide a woman like her assistance. 

Embarrassment withered his composure as Pansy approached the counter. Neville resolved to work quickly so as to release them both from this awkward hell of social interaction, but his hands stilled as he rang her purchases. _Amaranthus viridis_ roots, _Daucus carota_ seeds, _Physalis alkekengi_ pods… 

Pansy’s dark eyes shone in challenge, daring him to ask. 

He didn’t. A gentleman would never. 

But he did remember. He spent time in the public library, searching for substitutions, and in Midwife Granger’s sitting room, enduring her narrow-eyed suspicion.

When Pansy returned one month later, Neville summoned his practiced courage. 

“Take the _Taxus wallichiana_ leaves instead of the Chinese lantern pods. They’re less toxic, and you need a smaller quantity to achieve the same, ah… _Effect_.” 

Pansy paused a moment, considering, and Neville’s heart thundered when she followed his advice. Only after he’d packaged her purchases did she address him. 

“Mr. Longbottom?”

“Yes, Lady Flint?” 

“Do not meddle in my affairs.” 

Shame left him breathless. He’d overstepped. He’d interfered. 

He’d only wanted to help. 

The shop door slammed shut. Though he wasn’t scheduled to close for another thirty minutes, Neville could not stomach the idea of seeing another customer after such thorough humiliation. He locked the door behind her. 

The intervening month restored some of his dignity. No rumours had circulated about his gauche behaviour; Pansy had told no one about his misstep. He needed to apologize, to explain the honourable intentions behind his unwelcome interference. 

But her presence in his shop ten minutes prior to close saw that plan change. Because, as she reached for her herbs, the cuff of her dress slid down her arm, revealing dark purple bruises ringing her wrist. 

Pansy set her items on the counter, yet Neville did not move. Courage came easy this time. 

“I cannot authorize these purchases, Lady Flint.” 

She looked down her nose at him. “Are transactions not within your role as shop proprietor?”

“They are.” 

“Then I fail to see the problem.” 

His eyes flicked to the door, ensuring privacy from her lady’s maid. “Your wrist, Lady Flint. That is the problem.” 

She grasped the injured joint, eyes wide then narrow as she shifted through surprise and into insult. “You’re meddling again.” 

“As I believe I must. Allow me to call the law on your behalf. A constable would be dispatched, and—”

“And Lord Flint may yet kill me once the report has been filed.” She frowned, brow pinched. “You cannot be so naïve, Mr. Longbottom, as to think the _law_ would shield a wife from her husband.” 

“But—”

“Not all of us have the luxury to choose. My father signed a contract. I’m much like a horse, to be used and whipped and bred at my husband’s leisure. If the only thing I can refuse him is an heir, then I…” Tears shone in her eyes; Neville averted his gaze until she cleared her throat, composed once again. “Then I shall do what I must to protect my unborn. If you are unwilling to provide me what I need, then I will find another way.” 

Silence hung between them, growing as Neville fought his better judgment and lost. 

“There is another way.” He reached beneath the counter and withdrew a lockbox, from which he selected a packet of fine powder. Using a delicate set of copper scales and a clean metal spatula, he portioned it out into a pre-folded paper packet, which he then sealed with green wax. 

“ _Aconitum napellus_ ,” he said quietly. “When you’re ready, dissolve this into your husband’s tea. Take care not to touch it.” 

Pansy’s breath caught. She took the sachet, her fingers lingering against his, her silk glove cool and firm against his skin. “Thank you, sir, for giving me what I have long yearned for.” 

Heat flushed Neville’s cheeks, desire dipping low in his belly at her intimate attention. “And what is that, my lady?” 

She leaned close, a cold grin on her lips as she whispered:

“ _A choice_.”


	2. Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Break  
> Rating: T  
> Word Count: 740  
> Warnings: N/A
> 
> AUTHOR: [persephone_stone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephone_stone/pseuds/persephone_stone)

Neville limped slowly down the darkened aisle of Greenhouse Three, feeling as though he could breathe for the first time in months. A bruise bloomed, purple and angry, around his left eye: a reward from Vincent Crabbe for interfering with his _Crucio_ practice on a first year Hufflepuff. 

He passed blooming aconite and giant umbrella flowers, filling his lungs with their scent. Long, swaying tentacles of flitterbloom plants brushed against him as he continued deeper into the greenhouse, their gentleness at odds with the violence and brutality that had been his constant companions since returning to Hogwarts.

When he reached the end of the aisle, he stopped, looking up through the ceiling at the stars. He knew that somewhere, Harry and the others were underneath these same stars, doing something dangerous and brave and befitting of their House. For a moment, he let himself wish he was somewhere—anywhere—else: with Harry, in hiding with his grandmother, in some alternate reality with his parents where they’d never been tortured, never been heroes, maybe never even been magical. A nice, boring life as a Muggle sounded incredibly appealing.

A branch snapped to his right, followed by the sound of a whispered curse. 

Neville spun, digging hastily in his pocket for his wand. “Who’s there?”

In the light of the _Lumos_ he cast, a pair of black shoes were just visible in the shadows of a Dirigible plum tree.

“Show yourself,” he said, relieved that his voice only shook slightly.

A sigh came from behind the tree, and the shoes moved, their owner stepping out slowly into the moonlight.

Neville felt his eyebrows disappear into his hairline. _“Pansy Parkinson?”_

Her lips pressed together in a mutinous line. “Well I’m not Hermione Granger, that’s for fucking sure.”

“But—but what are you doing out here?”

She dropped her gaze, giving her fingernails a careful inspection. “I could ask the same of you, Longbottom.” 

Neville may not be as gifted a wizard as many of his classmates, but he’d always excelled at reading people. Pansy’s body language clearly broadcast her fear and nerves. Whatever she was doing out here, he didn’t think she was trying to get him in any more trouble.

He sighed, too exhausted to lie. “I just—I needed a break.”

“From having your face rearranged?” she asked, and Neville was surprised there was no cruelty in her voice. In fact, when she lifted her eyes back to his, he could have sworn they were full of sympathy—or at least, the closest she could get to it.

“Something like that.”

She shifted on her feet, twisting her fingers together before stepping closer to him. “It’s the same for me,” she said quietly. “Not my face, _obviously”_ —she gestured at her flawlessly made-up face with a self-deprecating shrug—“but about needing a break. I haven’t had one in awhile.” 

Neville frowned. “Not even at home?”

She snorted. When she spoke again, her voice was bitter. “Unlike your blood traitor grandmother, my father is loyal to the Dark Lord. I spent the summer holiday locked in my bedroom with my head under my pillow.” Her breath hitched. “Even then, I could still hear the screams of the half-bloods he and other Death Eaters would bring in for ‘questioning.’ So to answer your question, Longbottom, no. A ‘break’ is a luxury I can no longer afford.” 

She turned away from him, but not before he saw the sheen of tears in her eyes.

“I’m—erm—I’m really sorry Pansy.” Neville moved toward her, awkwardly patting her shoulder. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of his fingers against the wool of her jumper, and he quickly dropped his hand back to his side.

“I don’t know why I told you that,” she whispered, trying—and failing—to wrest control of her emotions.

He sighed, sitting down on a low table. “I don’t either. But I _am_ sorry. And I’m also willing to listen if you’d like to tell me more. Whenever you’re ready, that is.”

After a few moments, she straightened her shoulders and dried her eyes. She walked over to him, stopping just in front of where he sat. He felt her eyes traveling over his face, his body, reading _him._

“You’re not what I expected, Longbottom.”

“Neither are you.”

She hopped up to sit on the table beside him. “Fancy taking another break tomorrow night? Same time, same place?”

He felt her fingers brush against his, her touch feather light. He smiled. “Yes.”


	3. Care Instructions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Care Instructions  
> Rating: T  
> Word Count: 750  
> Warnings: N/A
> 
> AUTHOR: [RoseHarperMaxwell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoseHarperMaxwell/pseuds/RoseHarperMaxwell)

Once Draco and Hermione finally stop dancing around each other and get together, it doesn't take many Hogwarts-alum pub nights for Pansy to recognize that somewhere along the way, Neville stopped being awkward, jumper-wearing Longbottom. 

He's become _hot,_ jumper-wearing Longbottom. 

She tries dropping hints at first. Things that make Neville swallow hard, a faint flush crawling up his throat and rising past his newly-chiseled jaw. Very subtle, like, "Buy me a drink, Longbottom. Maybe we can become the next interhouse union." 

But Neville blushes and laughs it off, every time.

By the time Weasley says, "Take her on a fucking date already, mate," Pansy has half a mind to turn him down if he does ask. 

No one should need convincing to date her. Pansy is a catch. Neville’s proven himself to be absurdly kind and decent, so being brushed aside is maddening. It can't be because of her desperate outburst during the battle. They've all assured her she's forgiven, especially on nights when too many drinks set her off on a very earnest apology tour around the table. 

"It's fine, Pansy," says Potter, every time she clutches his sleeve and forces him to make eye contact so he can't help but _see_ her remorse. "I'd have done the same thing." 

He wouldn't have, she knows. He's too selfless. All the Gryffindors in her company are like that; incapable of taking something that’s offered.

But Neville heeds Weasley’s call to action. He scratches his stubbled jaw and says, "Er, sure, if she'd like. Can I take you to dinner, Pansy?"

Because he pretends like it's his idea, she accepts. "I suppose that would be alright."

* * *

The date's fine, but her finest conversation starters aren't working. He's stiff and restrained. She finally grabs her purse and rises to her feet in frustration. "You know, if you don't like me, you could have said so instead of letting me make a fool out of myself."

He stills her with one calloused hand to her wrist. "Pansy, wait. Please."

She settles. He has sixty seconds to convince her to stay.

"You're so lovely, Pansy. It's...mind-boggling that someone like you would pursue me. So much so that I can't help but wonder if maybe that's just it. It's the pursuit, yeah? If I returned your affections and you realized the idea of me doesn't match up with the reality, well. That'd be it then, wouldn't it?"

She's frozen, fully focused and very aware of her heartbeat as he holds her gaze and continues quietly.

"I'm elbow-deep in soil every day. I go from the Hogwarts greenhouses to my own gardens. I talk to my plants—possibly more than I talk to people. I take Sunday tea with my grandmother after reading to my parents for an hour. My life is not grand or luxurious, not like you deserve. It's very mundane. But I like it. And you, Pansy..." he trails off, looking down for the first time. "You're dangerous. Because all that’s true, but I'm still tempted to throw it all out the window. I try to convince myself I could become the type of man you need every time you so much as look my way."

"I see,” she says. “I've given you quite an impression, haven't I?" Pansy pushes back her chair, bitter and determined to leave this time. "Thank you for your honesty." 

She waves him off as he attempts to follow her from the table, stepping through the Floo before he can see the angry tears welling in her eyes.

* * *

Fuck him for making assumptions, Pansy decides. But she can't stop thinking about him. 

She spends the next week feeling wounded. Neville thinks her attraction to him—and maybe even her character in general—is superficial. It stings, but she acknowledges she’s done little to show him otherwise. He doesn’t really know her yet.

Pansy does some research and gets her hands dirty, and then sends him a gift.

 _Her name's Violet,_ the card starts. It's attached to a hedgehog cactus. Soft purple blooms are a sharp contrast to prickly spines. 

_I potted her myself. I tried to warn her about calling herself after a flower, as people will jump to conclusions about her delicate nature, but she wouldn't budge. She's stubborn like that, though more tolerant and low-maintenance than she looks._

_Lots of warmth—the hotter, the better—is all she really needs to thrive._

_I'm certain you can accommodate her with little adjustment. Send an owl if you think it merits further conversation._


	4. Sumptuary Laws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Sumptuary Laws  
> Rating: M  
> Word Count: 743  
> Warnings: N/A
> 
> AUTHOR: [granger_danger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/granger_danger/pseuds/granger_danger)

“I live off-campus,” Pansy said. “Not far.”

She slipped Neville a thick ivory card embossed with an address, as though that were a normal thing uni students did.

“Show that at the door. Tuesday, 7 pm.”

She sashayed out on her nude heels.

“Partnering with Princess Pansy?” Harry whistled.

Neville blinked back resurgent images of Pansy pressed against the wall of the spit-and-sawdust pub—first term, before he’d even known who she was—and the permanent purple-red stain her dark lipstick had left on his sheets.

He still couldn’t get it out.

“She’s not _actually_ a princess, you know,” Hermione offered imperiously, though they already knew. “She’s technically a countess, fairly far down a collateral line.”

“Royal enough to require Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb, I reckon.” Ron thumbed in the direction the security guards had gone. “And mean. I don’t envy you.” He shuddered.

“She’s not so bad,” Neville managed, even as the memory of her lips on his neck surfaced. The picture had appeared in The Sun: just the back of his head, fully unrecognizable, but he’d still had to sign an NDA. “And it’s just a history project.”

His friends exchanged a look, then Harry clapped him on the back. “You’re a braver man than I, Longbottom.”

* * *

When Neville’s person had been searched and his cell phone confiscated, a dark-suited man led him through a labyrinth of unnameable architectural features before depositing him outside a door.

Neville gulped uneasily and knocked.

Pansy emerged, her pursed mouth stained wine-dark again.

“Lady Courtesy,” he muttered, as her title required, feeling quite the numpty. 

Her eyes flickered with the playful disinterest of a cat batting at a half-dead mouse.

Neville’s eyes swept down and he gasped soundlessly like a fish.

“What are you _wearing_?”

Pansy was wrapped in an elaborate floor-length… cape-thing. Beneath her black bob and upturned nose, a fur collar gave way to lush, warm-purple velvet.

She hung in the doorway examining her dark lacquered nails, feigning boredom.

“My mantle. 17th century, Italian silk velvet. I had Mummy borrow it back from the British Museum. For our _project_.” Her eyes did something wicked.

At the end of the hall, one of the shadowy men murmured into a radio.

“It’s, ah. It’s very… nice,” Neville choked out, certain he’d fallen into a surreal, extremely posh fever dream. He had not expected their presentation on the reign of Elizabeth I to be so… primary source.

Pansy laughed then, low and sharp, and gestured him into the room.

The _bed_ room.

Its walls were a surprisingly vulvar shade of mauve. An enormous four-poster bed stood in the foreground, overflowing with rumpled white linens.

Neville glanced warily between Pansy and the bed.

Pansy quirked her lips at him but said nothing. She leaned back against a broad mahogany desk, perching on the edge of it. The mantle parted, revealing a long sliver of creamy leg.

Neville found himself seized by a quiet, careful confidence.

He stepped into her space, close enough to feel her exhale. He braced a hand on either side of her, taking care not to so much as graze her or the mantle, and looked a question right into her eyes.

Her breath quickened; she held up a segment of the garment. “Touch it,” she said.

The velvet was soft and stiff and several hundred years old.

“Tyrian purple,” Neville murmured. “Royalty only. They killed sea snails, to make this dye.”

Pansy sniffed. “Always palling about with know-it-all Granger.”

“I know things,” Neville said, dark and low. “On my own.”

“Do you?” Pansy arched a brow.

“You know I do.” With burning eyes, he attempted to telegraph memories of his hand up her skirt and his name on her lips. “ _Lady Courtesy_.”

Pansy closed her eyes, her lips parting slightly before she gathered herself. “Tonight, I’m your queen.”

“Are you?” Neville’s nose brushed hers.

Pansy stretched up, tousling his hair. “Kneel before your sovereign.” She pushed his head gently down.

So Neville knelt and demonstrated what he knew.

* * *

Sprawled across the bed, Pansy nestled into Neville's chest.

He ran his hand over the nap of the velvet below them, thinking with shame of the one million snails that had died for their sins.

“Most people are more concerned with the ermines,” she grumbled.

“I like snails.” Neville rubbed his thumb over the notches of her spine. “Protective shell, soft underneath.”

“Not that soft,” she protested, futilely.

“Soft enough,” he murmured.

Pansy buried her face in his neck.


	5. The Runaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Runaway  
> Rating: T  
> Word Count: 750  
> Warnings: N/A
> 
> AUTHOR: [ScullyMurphy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScullyMurphy/pseuds/ScullyMurphy)

Neville shook the last drops from the tumbler into his parched throat. They rolled down slowly, blazing a trail of peaty fire. 

It was his third in an hour and the bottle was infuriatingly low. He sloshed the rest of its contents into the glass and glared at the clock. 

7:39pm. 

It was done. Nearly ten minutes ago if her mother’s precise scheduling had held.

The glass slipped out of his hand and dropped to the floor. He watched it bounce on the jute rug, then sank down too, his knees giving out and his head dipping to his crossed arms. 

Memories ran uninvited across his mind, like muted scenes from a muggle film: her arch smile as she took his hand; a strand of sweaty hair whipping across her forehead as they danced; her parted lips as she moved above him… 

He jerked and dragged his arm across his eyes, a futile attempt to blot out the images—especially the one of her blotched, tear-stained face when she’d shut the door on him for the last time. 

How the _hell_ was he supposed to move on? 

He’d been offered a fellowship, doing something, somewhere—he didn’t really know, he’d barely skimmed the letter. But he decided right then that he’d take it. Minerva would be angry, but he didn’t care. He’d go no matter what. 

He couldn’t stay. Stay and watch her be someone else’s. 

He tipped his head back, contemplating the ceiling and possibly another drink, when a slap sounded against the door. 

He snapped upright—what the fuck could this be? 

Then he heard it, raspy and raw. “Longbottom, open up. _Please_.” 

He stood so fast he barely realized he was moving, then wrenched at the door. 

She was there. 

Impossibly. Like a surreal dream. In her wedding gown that was so enormous it took up the whole doorway—hair straggling loose, eye makeup running down her cheeks in purple streaks. 

“Pans, _what_?” His mind stuttered.

“I ran, Neville. I couldn’t do it.” 

“But you said—”

“I know what I said. And I’m an idiot.” She jabbed a finger under her eye to catch a tear.

“But what about your mum and dad, 450 guests, the _Prophet’s_ ‘Most Luxurious Wedding of the Year’? And Marcus. Where’s _Marcus_?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably getting plastered on top-shelf booze and/or a celebratory blowjob from Draco. Look, can I come in?” 

Neville stepped aside. “Of course.” 

She lifted the hem of her dress and he saw that she was wearing black wellie boots under it. She gave him a rueful look. “Couldn’t very well run to the apparition point in heels.”

He laughed—improbably—then sobered, feeling tears wet his own eyes. “What does this mean, Pans?” 

She stepped forward. His heart sped as she lifted her gaze to his.

“It means that I’ve been horrible,” she said slowly. “And that there’s part of me that’s unbearably shallow and stupid. And that you shouldn’t— ” she looked down and shook her head, then looked back up as tears spilled down her cheeks “—you shouldn’t love me. But it also means that I love _you_. Desperately. So much that I couldn’t go through with it. Turns out I don’t care about all that...rot. Not enough to be without you.” She took a deep breath. “And you should absolutely not give me a second chance, but I’m here asking for one. And, _gods_ , I should have said this first, but I’m so _sorry_ , Neville—” 

She lost the ability to speak and it was instinct for him to reach out, pull her into his arms. “It’s OK,” he murmured, stroking the satiny skin of her back.

She tensed but then let loose a huge, wracking sob and melted into him. 

“Is it too late?” she whispered into his chest. “Have I fucked it all up?”

Neville’s answer was quick, almost involuntary. “No, it’s not.”

“Oh, my love.” Her arms tightened around him. 

“But,” he gently disentangled her, the fabric of her dress rustling. “It’s going to take some work, Pans. I love you, but this was…a lot.” 

“That’s fair.” She nodded slowly. “What can I do?” 

He looked her up and down and felt a real smile cross his face, the first in weeks. He twined his fingers with hers and pulled her close again, hardly believing the turn his night had taken.

“You can start by losing the dress.” 

Her answering smile was radiant. “But I’ll keep the wellies.” 

He laughed and nodded into her dark, shining hair.


	6. The Truth on Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: The Truth on Lust  
> Rating: T  
> Word Count: 749  
> Warnings: N/A
> 
> AUTHOR: [bionically](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/pseuds/bionically)

_"You’re_ the expert?”

Arms crossed, Pansy's derisive and dismissive as she stares down at the wizard at the bottom of the steps leading up to the front door. When she asked for a reputable expert in herbology, she didn't expect to find that it'd be Neville _Fat_ bottom showing up at her house. 

It's early morning, yet his clothes already look like he's been rifling through the dirt for hours. Instead of proper robes, he's wearing faded brown chausses, working boots. The rucksack he carries over one shoulder is similarly worn and bulging with items. With his sleeves rolled up midway on his lean forearms, he resembles a vagabond that her father would no doubt order off the estate.

Unluckily Pansy is the only one home; the one in charge of making sure everything runs smoothly in her parents' absence.

She heaves a long-suffering sigh, gesturing him in. "Well, come along then, expert. Though I have no doubt I'll need to call on someone else within the hour."

Her mother's prize plants are kept in the conservatory. Pansy has no love for herbology, but she's been ordered to water the east side every morning an hour before dawn, along with a list of other very specific instructions.

There'd been a party last week, and she'd woken at noon the next day, rushed in to water the east side, and now…

Well, not even Longbottom can make things worse now.

He's silent the entire way, not even breathing heavily as she strides briskly through the hallways and down and up a flight of stairs. Somehow she remembered having to endure his loud breathing at one point as his assigned partner in class. Now he's like a different person; tall, broad-shouldered, and tanned. The glasses are new, the jawline as well. Has he always had such an aquiline nose, or did a fracture improve it for him?

The glass double doors of the conservatory fall apart at their approach, and she enters to stop at an enclosure at one side, now in shade as the sun rises higher in the sky.

He kneels to examine the area she indicates. When he glances back up at her, she's jolted by their eyes meeting on accident, heat tingling along her spine.

His eyes are crinkled up in amusement, and one side of his mouth lifts far higher than the other—another imperfection in a sea of them—and yet somehow she's unwillingly finding him not unattractive. "You're talking about these?"

She blinks. For a moment there, she was thinking of how blue his eyes were, but now she shakes herself and responds with bite. "There’s also another problem but these, yes." _Obviously._ The plants before them are completely black.

"Do you know what they are?"

"Flowers." She pronounces the word as though he's an idiot, which he's always been. Her eyes drift down to his derriere which is taut beneath his trousers. She can't help but think that his surprisingly nice arse matches his forearms, which are corded with muscle. 

She stops herself with effort. Ogling Longbottom? She's clearly gone mad.

"They're noon-blooming ebony violas." He's looking at her as though that means anything to her. "Black pansies."

"They were purple." Her mother would kill her if she let anything happen to anything within the conservatory. 

He swivels on one knee to squint up at the glass ceiling, then turns back. "They're entering pollination, which means we should leave."

She has no idea what he's saying.

"In other words, they're perfectly alright. They should return to normal in a few days." Longbottom rises to his feet, and Pansy steps back when he suddenly looms over her, crowded into her space by the foliage around them. His arm brushes hers; he stops to stare down at her. Slowly, as though in a trance, he says, "They're the exact same colour as your eyes. Black—and violet on the edges."

Her pulse is racing, and she can’t concentrate. Without thinking, she reaches out to grab him by his shirt front, pulling him in to kiss him full on the lips. He freezes, inhaling sharply. Immediately she releases him, eyes wide with dismay as she stumbles backwards. "S-sorry—I didn't mean—"

What is she _doing?_ Kissing _Longbottom?_ She must be out of her mind, and yet...she wouldn’t mind doing it again. 

Lunacy.

His apologetic smile is tinged with bemusement. "No problem. I was going to say that you should know its pollen is an ingredient in both _Veritaserum_ and love potions."


End file.
